


Return of Miracles

by mistralle



Category: X-Men (Comicverse), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Creepy, Gen, M/M, Pining, a vague fantasy AU, depictions of violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-22
Updated: 2014-04-22
Packaged: 2018-01-20 10:27:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1507175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistralle/pseuds/mistralle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Erik has to spend some time recuperating in a castle he once conquered, he will encounter someone to love and someone to fear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Return of Miracles

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spicedpiano](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spicedpiano/gifts).



It starts with the mist. Erik is laid out on the couch of the library, overlooking the distant line of trees. The air is heavy and damp, and Erik’s lungs ache from trying to breathe properly.

Lord Xavier is sitting in front of window, pale and ethereal in the sparse light of a grey afternoon. He’s young, so young, and still older than the boy Erik encountered during the conquest of Westchester. He struck his dagger into Erik’s side, and was willing to die to finish the deed. He’s much less passionate now. Erik misses it. He dreams of clasping that child to his chest and of sheltering him from pain. Lord Xavier doesn’t need sheltering – he’s encased in the armor of finest silks and artfully woven wool. 

Xavier brought him berries just this morning, and his lips are so red, and Erik can’t say if it is because of the hot blood, coursing under the thin layer of skin, or because of the berry juice staining them. Erik wants to taste them anyway.

There is a symbolic collar resting on Xavier’s neck. Erik wants to howl from rage every time he sees it. Xavier doesn’t seem to even acknowledge its presence.   
“I’m glad that Shaw let you rule this land,” Erik sighs, trying to assume a non-painful pose. 

“Let?” Xavier smiles incredulously and looks at him as though Erik was a foolish child. “It’s not like he had any choice. My family is bound to this land by our bones and our flesh. It’s not something that can be broken by… an army.” The last words are said with a clear air of distaste, like Xavier wanted to use another word and changed his mind the last moment.

Erik knows better than to say something. He waits for Xavier to continue, and he does.

“Whose name do you think I carry?” asks Xavier and now he waits for Erik to answer.

“Was it not the name of the scientist?” Erik is cautious, and even before he finishes he knows he is wrong.

Charles laughs sharply, and his laugh is like sunbeams on the metal thorns. 

“That’s the problem with the names,” he says, “they are much too common. No, my friend. Charles was the name of my ancestor who first built a house on this land. It is said that he loved these woods and these hills so much, that the same love pushed out that what he had for his family. He dreamed of binding his blood to these grounds. In the end, he buried his son alive as a gift. That is why all of his men are happy here. This payment was far too much.”

Erik doesn’t know if he is expected to speak, but he’d rather not. And that’s well, because Charles hasn’t finished yet.

“Strange, how everyone knows and reveres the name of a child-killer, but no one remembers the name of the victim.” Charles tries to control his bitter frown, but he can’t do it, not entirely, and Erik catches it within his memory, just as he catches the fact that Charles never used the word “sacrifice”. 

They don’t talk anymore then. But in the night Erik can’t deny the feeling that he is being watched. Something is there, though he still can’t touch it with his senses. It’s like the house itself is watching him unkindly, analyzing, waiting for the moment to strike. The floorboards creak a little, and the moonlight dancing from out of a crack in the blinds can’t touch the darkness and somehow makes it feel even more impenetrable.

Erik dreams of shallow graves and thin spindly fingers reaching out from the cracks in the floorboards. There is a blue-eyed boy in his dreams with him, clad in silks and wool and with his bare feet covered in dirt, and the shadows of people glide over the bare white walls around them.

“He didn’t want to die,” the boy murmurs. There are two shadows of young boys, both of them not even reaching Erik’s shoulder. One of the shadows touches the other’s face tenderly, and there is so much feeling in this little gesture, Erik feels his heart clench. 

The shadows painted on the white-washed wall act out a horrible, terrifying scene. 

There is a shadow of a man with a short, bushy beard there. Erik had seen him commanding others with harsh, cruel gestures. This shadow pauses for a second and then rushes over to the young lovers like a silent bird of prey.

The boy gasps at Erik’s side and Erik somehow knows what is to happen next, but it still is sudden and horrible. 

He knows that the largest shadow was once called Charles, and that hurts him somewhere deep, like this man long dead had no business taking this name for himself.  
“He found his son with another boy,” says blue-eyed child quietly, “and he got angry. So very angry…”

There are shadow droplets, sliding over the wall, creating the intricate, gruesome design. Behind it, a father rains blows on his son in shocking silence, not caring the boy stopped moving some time ago. He is merciless and swift like a hurricane, and when he does stop, it is to wipe his face with a handkerchief. Erik can see the intricate mesh of lace on the cloth’s edge. 

“He dragged him off to the edge of the woods,” whispers the child, and his voice is molten sand pouring in Erik’s ears, “and then he dug a hole and he threw his son there, and threw some wooden planks so that the body wouldn’t be found at once. And then he covered the grave. And then they made a story of a noble madman, who sacrificed his son… All lies!”

There is dirt on his knees, and blisters on his hands, and dirt under his nails, like he dug desperately to… what? To get to something? 

“What none of them knew though,” continues the child in dreamy, sweet voice, “is that the boy was still alive. And he stayed alive.”

The pale, thin fingers reach through the decaying wood, and they become longer and longer over time, like roots growing, like sprouts reaching for the sky. 

There’s a cut on boy’s hand. Years later it will be a thin scar Erik will see when this hand buries a dagger in his side, desperately trying to fight off the attackers.

“And he is alive now.” The boy finishes and the tall, faceless shadow forms behind him.

And Erik wakes with a gasp.


End file.
